


Tomorrow (with you) I’d like to lose myself in the fleeting moment

by ImberReader



Series: Tomorrow (with you) [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, First Kiss, I guess but honestly who can take last few episodes seriously, Jaime as Brienne's Sworn Sword in aftermath of Long Night, Pining, Sansa Stark is a Good Friend
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22591480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImberReader/pseuds/ImberReader
Summary: Brienne hasn't always been responsible, but for most of her life she's felt the weight of these choices. During her visit on Tarth, accompanied by Jaime, she rediscovers the joy of simply following what her heart wants the most.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth, Sansa Stark & Brienne of Tarth
Series: Tomorrow (with you) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1734799
Comments: 27
Kudos: 195





	Tomorrow (with you) I’d like to lose myself in the fleeting moment

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to write a little piece, 200 words at most, inspired by word Strikhedonia which is defined as the pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”. And here we are, 1500 words later and it didn't even explicitly make into the fic.
> 
> Anyway. Have a messy sort of ficlet/character study where I probably switched tenses, because it's 12am and I can't proofread anymore without going cross-eyed.
> 
> (Obviously) Not beta-d. We embarrass ourselves publicly like men. You can find me on [tumblr](https://scoundrels-in-love.tumblr.com/).

Brienne hadn’t always been responsible.

If she were, she wouldn’t have flung herself off the cliff’s edges, pursuing Galladon with shrill laughter, in that summer when all was simple still and the sun of Tarth sigil was love that could cast no shadows.

If she were, she would have put down her sword and weight of that choice would’ve dragged her shoulders lower and lower, until she did not loom over Ser Wagstaff anymore, when he took her for wife in the Sept. 

Maybe she wouldn’t even have picked swordplay up in the first place, but it was _that_ moment when it truly became a transgression against her father, against her island.

Not acting responsibly had not freed her of the weight choices she has taken (or avoided) would drag into her chest, like carcasses of some unfortunate prey. There, they slowly became bleached bones, taunting with _what ifs_ and made her stumble at unexpected times, when another broke under her foot. 

She had spoken of it with Lady Sansa once, just once, after she had received her father’s letter that asked if she could come home, if only for a visit. Brienne hadn’t meant to, but her Lady’s face had been wistful: “It is good you have a father who is proud of you, Ser Brienne. Few deserve it as much as you. Of course I shall grant you leave.” As if she doubted her father would be proud of _her_ , the girl that had survived snares and pain greater than most, the woman that had reclaimed Winterfell for the pack to come back to, the Queen in the North.

“If he is proud of me, it is unearned. I have failed him, as his only heir. I left to chase dreams of knighthood and even now, I do not plan to return to take my place as future Evenstar. No husband and no children to name as one, either.” Brienne’s voice had been steady, but her fists had clenched by her sides as she felt wind whistle through skeletons of every abandoned responsibility. 

Lady Sansa had smiled at that, almost as if she had a sweet secret melting on the tip of her tongue. She did not divulge it, but her eyes had been warm and serious, like the hearth of a well-loved home. “Perhaps it is selfish of me, but I am grateful you did so, Ser Brienne. I would not be here, if not for your choices.”

It had been odd to hear this - she had never thought of her role as so important in the grand play of things. She thought of it still sometimes, months later, of the sense of _rightness_ it had given her. Brienne was satisfied with who she was and the roads she had traveled, so it felt almost vain to feel a burst of pride and to think her irresponsibility have truly saved lives on a larger scale, maybe even changed the world. And yet, it had eased something in her. 

If the shift had been apparent, Lady Sansa did not acknowledge it and continued on: “If Gods are kind, your father shall live for years still and who knows what our lives will be like at the end of this Summer. We have already seen how a single year can change great many things. Now, you should prepare for your journey.”

And so she had.

Jaime had firmly announced he would go with her, despite her protests. “I am your sworn sword, Brienne. It would make no sense for me to stay here.” Brienne thought it made _perfect_ sense - he could take her place by Lady Sansa’s side, during her absence. And yet, he insisted and so did her Queen. “Ser Podrick will do just fine,” she had assured and again smiled a sweet smile, reminiscent of a child who knew where the treats were and merely needed adults out of the room. 

Now that they were standing shoulder to shoulder on the edge of gardens, watching the merriment, Brienne could quietly admit to herself how truly glad she was for his stubbornness. They had laughed, drunk and even danced, before drifting away from the center together as others continued to celebrate the Festival of Mother in full.

There was silence between them, filled with floating tunes and flickering lights of bonfire, and she could watch him while his own thoughts wandered somewhere. It must be a good place, she thought, judging by his smile. Jaime smiled a lot more these days, caught himself once and said it must be something in the wine or the water. 

He liked Tarth, it was obvious, and it pleased Brienne more than it should. She wasn’t staying. He wasn’t staying. But when they sparred in the yard in mornings and his taunts nestled in secret places they weren’t meant to, when the green of his eyes were bright with excitement, rivaling the dim light of armory as she showed him Ser Duncan the Tall’s shield, when he laughed together with her father in way she hadn’t heard either of them in _years,_ she wished they would. 

Wished so fiercely as she had only wished to sword-fight and to be a knight. In those moments, she felt recklessness of her youth coming back to her, the ease with which she could make the reckless choices because her heart thought of them as just. But this wasn’t just, was it? It was just a _want_. And she was too old to follow those blindly, had seen how much it could cost.

Almost funny that she’d think about the meaning of responsibility when looking at a man who self-proclaimed to never give two shits about it. But perhaps that was the reason - despite his loud words, despite _Oathbreaker_ branded on his back in invisible, yet so loud, ink, Jaime was responsible about things that mattered. His value scale was a little tilted at times and he obviously had no intentions to fix it, but his heart was always true. She only wished she could care little less about propriety, too. About losing him to her own storm of wants. 

He looked at her, perhaps having sensed her gaze, and his smile softened, like a beam of light through stained glass, landing green or blue or red and gentle on the floor. Her heart lurched oddly, as if it wanted to lay down in it, forever.

She looked away.

“Brienne, is everything alright?” He touched her hand and she followed it, as if he had pulled her - a step closer, her palm shifting against his, but not daring to entwine their fingers. He was the one who did, the warmth of his touch reassuring and heady all at once.

“I am,” she assured, blamed the wine for her heartbeat that outraced the beat of the music. “Merely thinking of how much longer we can stay, I have duties--”

“Perhaps you shouldn’t think so much at all times, Brienne. Or, if you _must_ , think about what you owe to yourself, for once: to be happy.”

It sounded so absurdly alike what her father had told her just days before that she distantly wondered if he had overheard. But then again, Jaime had reminded her to think of herself more often in these years.

Her gaze dropped to his lips, as if she could scry the answer in them, and he licked them, which sent her thoughts scattering like hand through smoke. Only one wispy want remained, persistent.

She had thought of kissing Jaime before. In the moments before the War of Dawn, when they didn’t know if there would be another sunrise and she wanted to taste sunlight on his lips, just once. In the aftermath, when being alive did not feel _real_ yet and it freed her of mocking echoes, but too soon she had been anchored back to ground. When he had sworn to her and she had almost told him she wants a _different_ oath from him - the thought so bold she had barely recognized its shape before she had dropped it like hot coal. When they discussed strategies or fought, when they broke fast together or bid good night to each other. So many times that the count had lost its meaning.

Jaime tugged her closer by their joined hands, as if there had been much space left between before. And she wondered if it was just reflections of fire and her own want that danced like fireflies in his dark gaze. “Brienne,” he said in a low voice and in it, she found her answer. 

He tasted like wine and freedom, and the joy of daring. 

When he murmured words of love and her name as if it was one of them against her mouth, she thought that maybe this would be one rash decision to shape _their_ world better.

When, two years later, they came to Tarth a second time, now to stay, she found that it had been true and that the graveyard in her soul had greatly shrunk and grown much more quiet. 


End file.
